


that's not our deal

by Cerian



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-14
Updated: 2012-07-14
Packaged: 2017-11-09 22:53:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 497
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/459394
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerian/pseuds/Cerian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All he ever leaves is this; the lingering scent of smoke in hotel ash trays, and an ache in her heart.</p>
            </blockquote>





	that's not our deal

**Author's Note:**

> This was written in response for a prompt at the kinkmeme. The title is kindly borrowed from Best Coast's song ''Our Deal.''  
> Also, English is not my first language. Mistakes happen. Feel free to correct them though, because even though I've tried my best I guess there's probably some I haven't seen.

 

Early morning.  
  


The sun rises above the horizon and reflects itself in the buildings made of glass and metal. Breakable.  
  


The streets are empty, a wasteland.  
  


Ariadne turns to Arthur, the PASIV in his hand, dark sunglasses on his eyes, cigarette hanging out of his mouth.  
  


He looks lovely. Too perfect almost and makes her heart clench with sudden sorrow.  
  


In the distance, the warning noise of the train coming to a stop.  
  


‘’Time to go.’’ She says and smiles.

 

   
  
  


 

This feeling makes her skin feel tight.  
  


Makes her feel like she’s not good enough for anything or anyone.  
  


And that’s wrong. It has to be.  
  


She has to be better, somehow -- cathedrals and cities and mountains and skylines and thunder clouds and the smell of summer in the air created out of nothing but sheer will.  
  


(entire worlds people can lose themselves in.)  
  


But the thing about dreams, the thing that no one else in this business can see, is that they can become real. And they’d be far better.  
  


She just whishes Arthur could see that -- but the messy sheets that are cold to her touch reminds her that he doesn’t.  
  


All he ever leaves is this; the lingering scent of smoke in hotel ash trays, and an ache in her heart.

   
  
  
  


 

( _stay,_ she wants to whisper sometimes.)

   
  


 

 

The real problem with girls like Ariadne, is that they want too much.  
  


Ask for too much.  
  


(Arthur was the same once, nineteen and restlessness itching beneath his skin)  
  


Like dreams, wanting is limitless. There won’t ever be enough.  
  


(nothing is enough.)  
  


Ariadne is young, still fresh-faced -- the secret nobody tells her is this; after a while, all that dreaming; the impossible becoming possible, all that adrenaline pumping to your veins; safe houses and messed up jobs and revengeful corporations and hopping from city to city, knowing they can’t catch you, feeling invincible, the world under your feet is going to be dizzying in its surrealism, everything spinning too fast to catch your breath and just _live_ \--  rushing through life because you feel like there won’t ever be enough time to _see it all.  
  
_

(but it doesn’t matter. nothing is enough.)

 

 

   
  


 

 _You’ll die so young,_ Arthur thinks, _and I can’t save you._

 

 

   
  


(he doesn’t tell her that, won’t ever tell her that -- it’s not a part of the deal. they’ll work together, and they’ll sleep together, her skin soft and warm to his touch, and he’ll leave without a trace of himself left and she’ll be heartbroken, foolish and young and think she’s in love -- ariadne is in the love with ideas of things, not the actual substances they’re made of --  and he’ll feel bad for a second or two, walking down the empty city streets, dusk in the air, orange light brightening the whole sky, and he thinks there has to be much better things in life that the wild search for more, _always always more_ , when there isn’t enough, the sky endless over his head.) 

 

 


End file.
